A Study in Slash
by Salome Sensei
Summary: Collection of assorted Sherlock/John slash tidbits. No plots here! Adults only, please.
1. Drip

June 4, 2011

Note: My first little BBC Sherlock slashficlet. Barely MA. More to come.

**Drip**

"Damn it, Sherlock, why do you ask me to do these things?" snapped John, banging his tea cup onto the end table for emphasis and turning his back in the unkempt yet comfortable easy chair. The man was maddening. John eyed the jam-filled biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up, with her usual impatient kindness and dismissive "not your housekeeper" refrain.

"All right then," answered Sherlock with a wave, "I'll put the brain back in myself." Sloshy, squidgy sounds ensued as a knowing smirk spread across the world's only consulting detective's face. "You can help me with another little experiment."

John crunched biscuit and remained facing away from the kitchen-cum-laboratory. He'd been tricked again. Sherlock had never intended to have him help with his cat brain autopsy project, one of a thousand little diversions from boredom. He picked up another biscuit, deciding he'd eat all of them in spite. Ineffectual, pointless spite. In fact, it was impossible to spite Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock rose, returned the feline cadaver to the refrigerator, and went to wash his hands. "Water water water," he intoned. "The stuff of life…and of death."

Oh, Sherlock did love the sound of his own voice. So, he was working on the case after all, thought John. He would not ask about the cat brain; why encourage the showing off when not even Lestrade was in audience? In any case, there'd soon be an exasperated explanation that would make John feel foolish even if he'd never in a million years have come to the solution on his own. But water? That he could understand. The murder victim had been found floating in a shallow pool of salt water. Drowning was not the cause of death, nor were their wounds or evidence of poison. So what was the water for? "What experiment?" John asked, unable to resist.

Sherlock flashed a quick grin of obvious self-satisfaction as he leaned against the door frame between rooms. "Given your time in Afghanistan," he deducted, "you have experience with water torture." He headed for the bathroom. "Come, John, let's test my limits," he quipped, tossing his words over his shoulder for John to catch.


	2. Summons

June 10, 2011

Note: My second little Sherlock slash ficlet. Even less plot than the previous one.

**Summons  
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"John," snapped Sherlock, frowning at the doctor's newest blog entry. It described the latest case in prose that somehow managed to be remarkably purple yet surprisingly dull. Even bad writing could stave off boredom if it was the right sort of bad. This wasn't. And worse: it was inaccurate. He'd misrepresented the depth of the water in which the victim had died by more than a centimeter and ascribed a thought process to Sherlock himself that was entirely ludicrous. The solution had been simple, his explanation logical. How did John manage to translate it into such ornate nonsense.

"John!" he called again, more urgently for having received no response in the seven seconds he had allowed. He neither rose nor even swiveled in his chair. Where was the tiresome man? In fact, why was John so rarely where he wanted him when he wanted him there? More frustratingly, why was he wanting John to be anywhere? From boring solitude to irksome reliance, Sherlock slapped his laptop closed then folded his arms across his chest.

The computer hummed into rest. The refrigerator whirred. The kitchen faucet no longer dripped since John had fixed it. No sound came from the bathroom. He tapped a finger against his arm. Was John even in the apartment? He certainly was not going to get up and look. He remained absolutely still and listened harder. Blasted man. If he had gone out, Sherlock would have heard the door open and close, even if he was ignoring the blather of where he might be going and why. But there was no case on, so it didn't matter where he was going. If he had gone, that is.

His impatient silence proved fruitful as at last he heard small sounds of movement from behind the closed bedroom door. Tiresome. With every appearance of sleeping in his own flat, John and Sherlock had been shacking up for weeks. All tuckered out from having finished his dreadful blog entry, apparently, he'd opted for a nap. "John!" Sherlock called once more, determined to wake the lazy man and vent his spleen.

There was no reply. Sherlock uncrossed his arms, placed his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. What to do. He pursed his lips. He had called three times; any more would be excessive. If he went to the bedroom and opened the door, he'd seem actively interested in John's whereabouts. And if he simply reopened his computer and perused the internet for new signs of Moriarty's activities? Well, then John would win, wouldn't he. And he couldn't have that.

With a grunt, he rose, pushed back his chair, slipped out of his loafers, and walked quietly to the bedroom door. John wouldn't hear his approach unless he wanted it so. His socks made no sound on the wood as he avoided the specific boards he knew to groan. He turned the doorknob with infinite patience and care, then pushed it open just enough to peer into the darkness.

"Took you long enough," called John from the bed, holding out the handcuffs and the violet wand.*

"You're so obvious," answered Sherlock, entering and closing the door behind him with a grin. Obvious, but so rarely boring.

* Since FFnet messes up URLS, please check out the wikipedia entry for "violet wand" if you don't know what one is.


	3. Hello?

July 13, 2011

Note: Written for LJ comm Fanfic-Bakeoff's "Foolish" prompt and Citrus-taste's "Phone Fun" prompt. I do love these boys.

**Hello?**

"Come along, John, give me your phone, now," demanded Sherlock in a voice balanced of equal parts authority and whiny child. His long, slender fingers were extended, palm up, as he lay, eyes closed on the sofa.

"No," answered John, and began to send a text message to Sarah.

"Damn it, man," came the reply, "I need it!" His eyes opened a crack and he almost leaned up on an elbow to peer over the armrest. What was wrong with the fool? He wouldn't ask if it weren't important. And so what if it wasn't important? John couldn't know for certain.

John turned his back and continued to thumb his little message. "I'm using it." He couldn't think of a thing to say, and found himself inviting Sarah on a date to the movies that night even though he'd planned on staying in with Sherlock. If this were serious, a real case and not just a bored Sherlock Holmes, he'd have surrendered his property without even being asked. He knew what that fact said about him, about their relationship, and so be it. There was something about the man that made certain forms of surrender both pleasurable and inevitable. But right now? The game that was afoot was nothing but a nicotine-patchless Sherlock in high pestering mode. And John wouldn't let him win.

"Mrs. Hudson!" shouted Sherlock, still not moving from his reclining position. He'd win this yet.

Sherlock's voice was absurdly loud and petulant, making the cry of their landlady's name exactly the same as if he'd yelled "I'm telling Mother." "I think I'll go upstairs to my room," said John lightly, upping the ante as he snapped the phone shut without sending the text after all.

"Oh will you now," oozed Sherlock, making rustling sounds on the sofa but still not rising.

John's curiosity was instantly piqued. "But first, I'm getting something to eat." He stalked toward the kitchen, knowing he hadn't been subtle enough to get away with the gawking he did as he turned the corner and found Sherlock, trousers unfastened, hand working away at that beautiful hard cock of his.

"Something to eat," Sherlock echoed, not pausing in his stroking, voice calm and even.

"Fine," snapped John, advancing and slapping his cell phone in Sherlock's free hand.

Sherlock's eyes opened, flashed. "Good. Now run along upstairs so I can call you on the extension."

John groaned, his cock jumping at the words, then stomped his way up the stairs. Damn the infernal bastard. Why had he ever introduced Sherlock to phonesex?


	4. Holiday

22 July 2011

Note - Thanks to Kat for inspiration. Originally written for the 100-word prompt of "Holiday" at LJ's Hentai-Contest.

**Holiday**

"It is not," groused John.

Sherlock refused the bait. Or had already taken it, and his countermove was silence.

The maneuver had its desired effect. "I'm telling you," John pointlessly repeated, "it's not. I've been on holiday. Not often, mind you, but more often than you."

Sherlock gave the minutest of shrugs in acknowledgment that few people took vacations less willingly than he.

"So, trust me when I say that slathering me with Indian take-away and eating it off my naked, handcuffed body is NOT a holiday."

"It is for me," answered Sherlock, licking a dollop of vindaloo from John's navel.


	5. From the Private Blog of John Watson

22 August 2011

Note - Written for the "lube" prompt at LJ's Hentai-Contest with 333 word limit.

From the Private Blog of John Watson

I confess it. I was dismayed. (And yes, I realize that "dismayed" is a Sherlock word. I'm even beginning to sound like him.) Why dismayed? Frankly, because my bed was empty. Well, except for me. My bed was empty for almost two weeks after so much fucking that I could barely walk.

Once Sherlock decided that sex wasn't so very boring after all – thanks to forays into bondage, Victorian sex toys, animalistic roleplay, and my mile-long masochistic streak – we became lovers in the most hardcore of senses. No sweet secret snogs or casual patting of arses for John and Sherlock. Just one hell of a lot of good, dirty shagging.

But that seemed like a fantasy once it stopped. I was well and truly cut off. How quickly one develops expectations, and how dangerous to do so with a man like Sherlock. What am I talking about? There is no other man like Sherlock.

There were no cases of interest for his brilliantly neurotic intellect to fasten onto. I thought it would lead to more sex than ever. I was walking like I'd just gotten off a horse, but ready for more. Then one night, Sherlock turned me down - like a bedspread, except not. He never had before, but suddenly he was "working" and couldn't be interrupted. For days and days, barely eating or sleeping, sitting in the kitchen-cum-laboratory and toying with chemicals.

However, because all bad things must come to an end just as all good things must, the terrible weeks of abstinence ended. Even as I type, Sherlock is snoring pleasantly, having fucked me so long and so hard with so many devices (including his deliciously ample cock) that he actually needed a rest. I suppose I do too, but couldn't resist pausing to put this down in my private blog. Also note: I'm surprisingly unsore.

And what was Sherlock doing all those days away from our bed? Creating the best damn lubricant the world has ever known, that's what.


End file.
